


The Ego Walks

by TychoBrandt



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Is not killing the domain of all living things?, Karōshi in reverse, Multi, Questionable occupational safety standards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-06-27 06:10:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15679584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TychoBrandt/pseuds/TychoBrandt
Summary: You live and work in Tokyo. You are assured that you will die in Tokyo, too. But between your every heartbeat, you hear something calling out to you, quiet, but ever louder.Like any other animal, you can push the human into a corner--but do not be surprised when you are finally met with nail and tooth and merciless eye.





	1. Premeditation I

You dislike your life.

A more hyperbolic person would say "I hate my life" or something to that effect, but you are more precise than that. Hate is a strong word--overpowering, consuming of all things. 

But that is not your case. Hate goes beyond what you feel--perhaps beyond what you _can_ feel.

Lament not.

\---

Cigarette and coffee to start the day. You do not eat breakfast because your belly is engorged with restless dreams.

It's been a year since you've seen the inside of a doctor's office. You think your liver is starting to fade, but that could be your imagination, wishful thinking. But air doesn't sit in your lungs the way it used to. It's too eager to leave. Your blood isn't even red anymore, probably.

No solace in your apartment. This is where you sleep and wonder what went wrong with your life. Instant ramen and lukewarm showers, hum of a fan in summer, a dying kotatsu in winter. 

\---

Dread. You dread Saturdays. Shinjuku Saturdays.

On Saturdays your boss takes you and your colleagues out after work for longer than usual--beyond the usual single Sapporo. 

He watches you closely as your teeth rest on the lip of the glass of sake. He wants his employees to be happy. So he waits for another alcohol to be swimming in your blood for something similar to happiness to stare out from your eyes.

It's the same ikazaya. The owner knows you by face, by name. Sometimes he looks at you when he pours your sake--sees the desolation in your eyes despite the cheers and laughter surrounding you--and he casts his eyes down.

Then you--always you, no one else--must ferry your utterly shitfaced boss back to his house. You have a key to his house--because in his revelry he often loses his own--and it is not uncommon for you to pull off his shoes and tuck him into bed.

"I love you," he mumbles in a drunken haze, nestling into his pillow.

You do not hate your life. But you hate some things.

\---

It's just a fantasy.

They would be held captive beneath your fingers. Begging, writhing, gazing up at you plaintively. "Please," they would keen. But you would be steadfast, imperious.

Dalliances in college, a lark in high school. What experience did you have? To little to know, enough to want to know more. But you want what you want.

They beg. They want you so badly. They buck and shudder against your fingers, so crazed with want they forget all else.

Just a fantasy. You haven't been on a date in a year. 

But sometimes when you're walking through Kabukichō at night on your way home, and you see the pink lights, your resolve wavers inside you. So you keep your head down and your hands clenched, and hurry home.

\---

Killing your boss is a very common ideation, you have heard. Psychiatrists the world over are no longer concerned by such a confession.

How would you do it? A knife would be decisive, undeniable. You've taken to sharpening your kitchen knives, cheap and unused as they are, into razor fineness. Fine enough for surgery. Or autopsy.

Or something solid--a hammer, perhaps. Simple, primitive, but decidedly elegant in its directness. Not quick, but then again, do you want it to be?

Then there were the more practical methods--a balcony or a flight of stairs after a night of too much sake. Or an oncoming car or train--but you don't want to ruin some driver's life, you muse.

Or your bare hands--the hands he's usurped for his own, with pen and paper and keyboard. Around his throat, with pressure slow but steady. You would watch him go from confusion, to denial, to panic, then resignation--and then nothing, nothing, as his life would evaporate between your fingers.

And wouldn't it be for the best? His wife hates him (you think) and his children avoid him (you think) and the company would survive--but fuck the company anyway. 

You roll over in your futon, feeling uncharacteristically peaceful.

Perhaps you have something in common with other people after all.

\---

They sit in the farthest booth of Leblanc, intimdate, conspiratorial. 

You remember friendship like that--and how quickly it evaporated after high school, after university. 

There's no envy. Just a kind of dull nostalgia, warm behind your eyes.

\--- 

You carefully set the cup down onto the saucer. You look at your reflection in the cup. Is this what you look like to everyone else?

The boy behind the counter waits expectantly, pushing his glasses up his nose. 

"Good," you say finally, the sound so sudden it surprises you and he both. "It's good. Better than what they have at work."

The boy chuckles--part pride, part sympathy. "It's Kenyan AA," he says.

You nod. You pull out your pack of Seven Stars, pull one out, jam it between your teeth. You associate caffeine so closely with nicotine, now. But you see the look flicker over his face--a crinkle of the nose, a lowering of the brows--so you let your lighter hover for a moment, halfway to your mouth, before hiding it back in your pocket.

"You been working here long?" you say around your unlit cigarette. You feet childish, somehow.

"Just a few months," he says with an airiness that belies his age. 

For a full second, the hallucination washes over you--slamming your resignation letter on your boss' desk, storming out without looking back, coming to Leblanc and putting on an apron--

And then delusion leaves you, and you feel cold and empty again.

"Are... you okay?" The airiness is gone, now. Real concern in its stead. The eyes staring out from beneath that wild-animal hair see too much.

"Yeah," you say. You put the yen down--too much, who cares--and turn to go. "Thanks for the coffee."

\---

Stealing hearts, so the story went.

That wasn't enough, for you.

You wanted to cut the heart out.


	2. Premeditation II

You've been to Leblanc before, of course.

The first time was--you pause, count on your fingers. Maybe... two, three years ago? It was a Saturday--yes, a Shinjuku Saturday, unfortunately as ever--but you had been too busy to eat during the day so the sake was riding you hard.

You had lost your way and stumbled upon the the wrong train or two and suddenly you were in Setagaya, full of sake and self-loathing and lost amongst the lights in the darkness.

And there it was, a door aglow with warm inviting light. No glare of neon signage, nothing elaborate--in the perpetual twilit midnight of Tokyo you could just make out the lettering upon the awning.

Le... Blanc? The... blank? The... white? The...

You had no idea what it meant. 

You push the door open, and above you a cheerful bell blows out your eardrums. The man behind the counter glances up from his phone.

"Bathroom," you drawl.

He juts his bearded chin toward the back.

As good a beginning as any.

\---

An usaba knife would not do, with its blunt tip. A yanagi would be long enough to reach vital organs. But a deba knife could move through sinew and skin without issue.

You gaze upon your knife block thoughtfully. 

Perhaps your old santoku would do just fine.

\---

Your relationship with Sakura-san--proprietor of Cafe Leblanc--could hardly be considered a relationship.

In as few words as possible, he would greet you and request your order. "Coffee," you would say--you could see the brief glint of irritation in his eyes at your vagueness--and, when you had skipped lunch and breakfast to make deadlines, sometimes you'd partake in his curry as well.

He doesn't ask how you're doing or about work that day or anything else. Just "cash or card," if even that. He would then busy himself in the kitchen or carouse with the older, more familiar patrons, and you would watch with a kind of blunted interest.

But on your stool, at the counter, alone, present--

This is enough. For years, this is enough.

\---

Your eyes burn. Ache.

You are either staring at a computer screen or at white computer paper at work.

At home, you are staring at your TV screen or at your computer screen.

In between, the white tile and flourescent lights of the stations burn into your retinae.

Headaches come and go. Some painful enough to keep you awake at night, unsure of whether to close your eyes and keep them open it hurts so much. 

You could go to a doctor, but--what would you say? What is there in this world you even want to see? 

\---

You are standing on the platform at Shinjuku station and you are thinking.

Your train has left already. You watched it go. Your briefcase grows heavy in hand.

You're through your fifth cigarette in the past hour and your stomach is starting to hurt. Because you've been standing there for an hour, thinking, really thinking.

This isn't unusual--you're thinking about something most of the time. A good half of the time. The other half you're forcing yourself into a numb daze to get through the day (or night).

But you've been standing on that platform, watching trains flicker by, and mused.

It would be so easy--to fling yourself across the tracks and let the machinery do the work for you. It wouldn't hurt, not really--you're more steel and concrete and glass than anything else by now. 

The company would--

Fuck the company. That the thought even entered your mind makes you sicker than the nicotine.

Another train pulls into the station, and the doors open. People file in and out, brushing past you.

You board the train.

\---

You begin going more often, now.

You don't know a lot about coffee, even after years of it. You know a lot about sake--call it collateral damage--but coffee? Hardly anything. Acidity, boldness, finish--these words don't mean anything to you. But you know a good cup of coffee compared to a bad one, and that's enough for you.

The boy behind the counter humors your ignorance. He watches you closely--you become conscious of the small muscles in your face--and he waits for you to end the cup, for the critique to come.

Of course, at first, it's just "good" or "it's okay," but as time goes on you're more charitable with your words. Words like "flavorful" or "full-bodied" and even "viscosity" begin to emerge from the spaces between your teeth, to your own surprise--and the boy's, from the way his eyebrows raise and disappear into his hair.

\---

You are respected at work. But it is respect borne from fear and resentment, not from love.

You work the most, you are the boss' right hand and left fist. If there is a question, you likely know it--but the other employees are usually too scared to approach, anyway. They don't poke their head into your office unless they absolutely have to, and you know they had to draw lots beforehand.

You are not invited to anything. Not anything that matters. Overtime weekday drinking and Shinjuku Saturday--but nothing more. 

You do not hate your coworkers. You can hardly blame them, after all. Who would want to be with you?

Who would want to _be_ you?


	3. Manumission

It is Saturday. You know what that means.

You spend the last few hours of the workday rocking back and forth in your computer chair. You can't focus. The screen in front of you is painfully white. The hum of the fluorescent lights vibrates in your teeth.

You're tired. Did you sleep last night--really sleep? You remember staring at the ceiling in darkness, mostly, but perhaps that was the darkness of sleep itself. You don't know. The perpetual drip of stress in your blood keeps you from really sleeping, really deeply sleeping. If you dream, it's of watching TV or being on the train or being at work--usually fucking something up.

You rub at your eyes. Just makes them hurt more.

\---

Your boss slaps you on the back. "And we made the deal, all thanks to you!" He raises his glass. In mechanical tandem, the others raise their own. They cheer, albeit cautiously--just loudly enough to be considered polite, and no more.

You twist the muscles of your face into something resembling a humble, appreciative smile.

No mere sake tonight--it's a celebration, after all. A celebration of celebrations for the first amongst unequals. Genshu, umeshu, shochu, only the finest. Boss pays--the company covers. A glass is pressed into your hand--of what, you're not sure, but your throat is already burning.

Your coworkers aren't used to alcohol of this strength. They get louder as the night drags on--louder, brasher, more honest. As the irritation ferments in your stomach, you drink--to give yourself an excuse not to talk, an excuse not meet eyes or nod along to a pointless story or stupid joke. You try to go outside--someone asks where you're going. You say for a smoke--but they're already smoking in here, they say, gesturing to the twinkle of cigarettes reflected in the liquor glasses. So you light a cigarette with the rest and drag on it slow so you won't have to talk. The boss has withdrawn a cigar, of course--not to be outclassed--but he's puffing on it and breathing smoke like it's a Seven Star.

Your breathing quickens. The room is--it's turning. Spinning. Slowly. You just need something to ground yourself with, to anchor to. You light another cigarette. You can just keep up with it, if...

"Hey--y'know--lookin' at you," Matsuda slurs, hand sudden unsteady on your shoulder, "when this all started, y'know, I didn't think you'd last the quarter, but here you are! You're something else. The way you tore through that last project? You're _unreal._ "

You gently peel his fingers, cold and damp, one by one, from your shoulder. "Thanks." He sways slightly without your support. You frown.

"No, seriously--" The smell of alcohol upon his breath is too much. You turn away from him, glance around the ikazaya for anything to quell your rising disgust, and your eyes find Ogawa as he stumbles as quickly as he can to the bathroom while the rest laugh and clink glasses. This place may hold the pretense of a ryotei, but it's just another fucking bar.

You want to leave. You want to disappear. But you can't.

So you take another drink.

\---

Your tongue and gums are raw.

You and the boss are the last to leave because that's how things are.

You escort him to his house, because that's what you do on Shinjuku Saturdays, and this one is no different. He's so drunk he can hardly stand and when he can stand he can hardly walk in a straight line. 

You fish your keys out of your pocket, open his gate, his friend door, usher him in. 

"I'm home!" he shouts to an empty and silent house. You grimace at the noise. You carry him up the stairs--by this point his legs have prior engagements--navigate to his room and lay him across the bed. Getting the sheets over him or his shoes off is a lost cause.

He rolls over slightly, opens a single eye. It glimmers at you in the faint moonlight. "Thanks," he says.

"Yeah," you say, but the word is slow to move, lingering behind your teeth.

Your boss chuckles to himself. "You're something else. My own kids wouldn't do this for me. Their own father."

You don't say anything. You just look longingly at the doorway.

He says something, but it's quiet and he's drunk and you're drunk.

"What?"

"--That I should adopt you," he mumbles out.

You stop.

You look at him. "... What did you say?"

"You're good for the company... and you're good for me. Smart. Dependable. I think of you as my own." He pauses, maybe for effect. "You and I... we're family."

You're closer to the bed than you remember.

Your hands are around his throat.

His eyes are wide and shining and terrified. You see something great and monstrous reflected within.

"Take it back," you hiss in a voice you've never heard. " _Take it back._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And here we go._


	4. Liberation

Today is Sunday. 

You wake up, look at the sunlight streaming through your blinds. It cuts bright lines across your floor.

You take a deep breath, stretch, arching your back. 

Your futon seems more comfortable than usual. You could just lounge here all day--but something inspires you to rise and meet the sun and clouds and sky.

Maybe this feeling is what they call contentment.

You roll your neck, feeling your vertebrae crackle. What will you do today? For once, a Sunday feels like... a day of possibility. 

Well, whatever it is, you decide that coffee will come first.


	5. Sunlight

__

*Establishing shot: slow zoom, Cafe LeBlanc, in a mild morning rain.*

__

*Establishing shot: Cafe LeBlanc, interior. The cafe has a handful of patrons in the booths or at the bar.*

__

*You enter Cafe LeBlanc, coat in hand. Your hair is wet, but your eyes are glinting.*

Barista: Hey, welcome!

You: _*Loudly*_ Right back at you, Akira-kun!

Akira (?): ...

__

*The other patrons stare. Slight chuckles from the audience.*

You: _*Quieter.*_ Right back at you... Ren-kun?

Ren (?): ...

_*The other patrons shake their heads and turn back to their coffee. More audible chuckles from the audience.*_

_*You approach the bar and lean forward to the barista's ear.*_

You: _*Much quieter.*_ Don't tell me I got your name wrong twice!

Akira/Ren (?): It's not that...

__

*You sit down at the bar.*

You: Oh?

Akira/Ren (?): You're... different than usual.

You: Oh, is that so? I don't know what you mean.

Akira/Ren (?): Something is definitely different. _*Flicks bangs out of his eyes. Looks you up and down.*_ Same haircut... same shoes...

You: Hey, what's with that tone?

__

*Audience laughs.*

Akira/Ren (?): It's just that I've never seen you quite so...

You: _*Places elbows on the counter.*_ Yes?

Akira/Ren (?): To put it less poignantly than I usually would...

You: _*Learning forward.*_ Yesss?

Akira/Ren (?): ... Happy.

You: _*Now sitting stock straight on the stool.*_ What? When am I not happy?

Akira/Ren (?): Whenever I see you, for one. _*Pauses, taps finger against chin.*_ Or maybe... whenever you see me?

__

*Audience laughs.*

You: Hey, come on. It's just that this is the place I go when I happen to be at my absolute lowest.

Akira/Ren (?): _*Deadpan.*_ Wow, thanks.

__

*Audience laughs.*

You: _*Obliviously.*_ It's like you're my psychiatrist, and you prescribe caffeine.

Akira/Ren (?): Funny coincidence, that... I'm going to study psychiatry in university.

You: _*Surprised, yet pleased.*_ Really?

Akira/Ren (?): No.

__

*Audience laughs.*

__

__

You: Alright, doc, I think that's enough psychoanalysis for one session. _*Grand hand gesture towards wall of coffee jars.*_ Prescribe me.

Akira/Ren (?): _*Chuckles.*_ Very well.

You: What should I expect?

Akira/Ren (?): Expectations poison the coffee. Just experience it first.

You: How will I know WHAT to experience?

_*The audience laughs. The barista sighs.*_

Akira/Ren (?): So, this particular beverage, usually served hot, is produced by means of what is commonly called the 'coffee bean...'

You: Alright, alright!

_*Audience laughs. Barista places cup of steaming coffee in front of you.*_


	6. Sunlight II

You're sitting at your desk in your office, typing away. You take a drink of coffee--and peer at the bottom of your mug. Maybe you should buy beans for the office from Leblanc. Would they even sell beans, though? Sakura's the type to guard his secrets, after all. You get the feeling--

There's a polite knock--one, two, three. You roll your eyes--you know that knock, alright. You get up and open the door--Tanaka is there, wringing his hands, not making direct eye contact.

"Tanaka," you say. "What's up?"

"Oh!" He says, as if you had addressed him out of nowhere. "Well, it's just that... the boss isn't here, yet. And since you and him are--well, we thought we'd ask you. We have a few things we need to review before we send them out."

You affect a perplexed expression. "Yeah... he didn't mention anything to me this morning about meetings or interviews. I'm sure he'll be in later. All the same--I can review those, for you."

He smiles. "Oh--yeah, that'd be great. Thanks!"

You nod. "Sure."

\---

When the boss doesn't show up for three days straight, that's when things get interesting.

The police check his house--not there. They contact his wife, he children--they haven't seen him.

You're a key suspect. You're the last person who saw him.

Your co-workers vouch for you--every last one--as a character witness. You're always bringing him back home from work parties. Have been for years.

He does this, sometimes--someone takes him home after a night at the bar (usually you), but then he walks right back out there to get one last drink before the bars close. 

It's possible he was abducted and is being held ransom.

It's possible he simply decided to go elsewhere--his phone and wallet were missing, too, so it's not as if he were snatched out of his bed.

But the police scourge you all the same. 

You sit in the interrogation room. It's slightly chilly.

The detective across from you asks you question after question--all of them quite similar to each other. You answer with the correct amount of concern and incredulousness. 

You make eye contact. You do not touch your face. You sigh at the correct intervals. You frown and squint at the correct moments.

The detective is young, intent. Around your age, maybe. He leans forward when he asks a question, leans back and folds his hands when he expects an answer. He grows more and more irritated as the interrogation drags on.

The detective leaves the room abruptly. The attendant officer looks somewhat embarrassed and shrugs at you. They let you go and say they'll contact you for further information, if needed.

You sleep well that night.


	7. Rain

_*Establishing shot: a stormy night in a backstreet of Yongen-jaya, the streetlamps providing shimmering pools of light in the darkness.*_

_*The sound of approaching footsteps becomes evident even in the rain.*_

_*A figure lazily strides into pale light and squints up into the black clouds... behold! It is you, the protagonist!*_

_*Audience claps and cheers. A wolf whistle is heard.*_

You: Ah... three days straight without any alcohol, and my liver feels fucking great.

_*Pause.*_

You: Now, to indulge a completely different vice and ravage my kidneys instead.

_*Audience laughs.*_

You stand in the middle of that narrow street, losing yourself in the feeling of rain on your head, your neck, your shoulders. You lift your hands and let the water strike your fingers and palms. Such a simple thing, water from the sky.

You always took it for granted. Then again, you're pretty sure you took just about everything in your life for granted, before now. Simple things--sunlight, moonlight, clouds, a cool breeze, birdsong, leaves changing color, flowers in bloom. The simple things that made life bearable... that you were too angry to notice.

Perhaps that you only see them now is some form of dramatic irony.

As the rain falls upon you, you linger there and appreciate the the glow of light from Leblanc's door. Who could resist? It is late, yes, but the sign says OPEN, so who are you to deny this business your patronage? Would that not be rude?

_*You saunter forward and open the door. The familiar jingle of the bell makes your mouth shape into something like a smile.*_

You: Sakura-sannn, I'm hoooome!

_*Sakura is not there. Instead, seven people are staring at you with varied expressions of confusion, awkwardness and secondhand embarrassment. They don't look like customers. More like... high schoolers, or college students.*_

_*You stand there, unmoving. The only sound is the water dripping from your clothes to the tile floor. Audience laughs. Camera pans back from you, blinking in the threshold, and the teenagers, blinking in their booth. In the depths of your shame you recognize one of the people--it's the barista, Ren! Or is it Akira...*_

Ren/Akira: _*Rises from the booth, unfazed.*_ ... Welcome in!

You: Uh... the, uh, sign said 'open,' so...

Ren/Akira: What a coincidence! We just so happen to be open. _*Weaves between his friends and heads behind the counter.*_ What'll it be?

You: _*Distractedly.*_ Surprise me. _*Looks back at the door.*_

Ren/Akira: You know, if you say 'surprise me' every time, it's not really a surprise that you're getting something surprising, is it?

_*A snort from the booth behind you.*_

You: I'm confident that you'll indugle me either way. _*You glance around the shop, pointedly avoiding the gazes of the teenagers._

You didn't notice before, but there's a cat crouched in the shadows, its blue eyes boring into you.

You: Where's Sakura-san?

Ren/Akira: Home by now. Or on a date. You know how he is.

You: _*Weakly.*_ And I'd prefer I didn't know him any better! _*Audience laughs. Polite chuckles from the booth behind you.*_ Uh, sorry to interrupt you and your... friends.

Ren/Akira: You're not interrupting.

You offer a lame wave to the group. They respond in turn, with 'hello' or 'hi' or waves of their own.

You look at them for only a moment, but you look with pure focus. There's something... off about them. Young and carefree as they seem, there's a seriousness radiating from them, charging the atmosphere. Feels like anything you touch will give you a static shock.

You swallow. You run your tongue along the back of your teeth. This... doesn't feel right.

You: I can take my coffee and go--

Ren/Akira: Nonsense!

_*Ren/Akira places a cup and saucer on the bar counter. He looks at you intently from under his curly bangs.*_

Ren/Akira: It's Colombian.

You: _*You drink. You pretend to consider the flavor, though you dwell on different things.*_ It's... good.

Ren/Akira: _*Arches an eyebrow.*_ Just good?

You: Let me finish the cup before I give up all my adjectives. _*Audience laughs. You twist on the stool and glance over your shoulder.*_ So... just hanging out, after hours?

They shift some of the papers on the table between them, seeming to cover them up. It looks like... geometry? Engineering? Architecture?

Red-Eyed Girl: _*Smiling politely.*_ Oh, just getting some studying done. 

You: _*Tilt your head in disbelief.*_ On a Saturday night? Shouldn't you all be... out, doing something?

The Red-Eyed Girl maintains her smile, but you can see her eyes flicker slightly to the left.

Blond-Haired Boy: Yeah, well, 'bout Shujin, it's a pretty tough school. Barely scrapin' by, y'know? Clubs, and tests coming up, and... _*He waves vaguely.*_

You: Oh, Shujin Academy... yeah, that makes sense. _*You turn your eyes to the table.*_ I've been out of school for a while, believe it or not. What do they have you working on these days?

Blond-Haired Boy: _*Glances back to his friends.*_ Uh--

Red-Eyed Girl: _*Touching her face.*_ Well--

Fluffy-Haired Girl: _*Claps hands together.*_ Sorry about them! We should let you enjoy your coffee in peace. You came here in the pouring rain, after all!

The rest nod or provide affirmations in some way before bundling up their materials and making their way upstairs with remarkable speed. You and Ren/Akira watch them go in silence.

You: They're... nice.

Ren/Akira: Uh huh. Really full of adjectives tonight, huh?

_*Audience laughs.*_

The sudden silence that came with the others' departure is palpable. You look around: the cat is gone too.

You: Yeah, well, make sure you pass all of your vocabulary tests or you'll end up a sorry salary-drone like me. _*You take another drink of coffee.*_ Seriously, though... don't lose track of them. You graduate high school, then college, and then all of the people you thought you knew just get lost in the daily grind of life. 

Ren/Akira: I won't let that happen.

He says it with such conviction it leaves you speechless for a moment.

You: Yeah... yeah, that's the right attitude. I like that. 

It's hard to explain. You've spoken to this guy ten or so times now, but you feel... a kind of bond, forming.

You take another drink of your coffee. Akira... or Ren... makes one for himself, and the both of you chat idly as the rain descends outside.

\---

When you leave the cafe, it's midnight, and the rain is coming down harder. But you don't mind. Your pockets are too wet to burrow your hands into so you let your arms swing freely as you walk through the puddles.

You decided not to pry, of course. But between his late tending the bar and his friends' sudden departure upstairs, it's Ren (or Akira?) is living at Leblanc's. You didn't consider Sakura-san to be that kind of the person...

But then again, you think wryly, we never know what people are capable of until the time comes, do we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The screenplay style is foreign to me, as you can see._


End file.
